"Durga Puja had come, its pleasant fragrance radically changing into the abhorrent odour of dread and demise!

"Now, father-my agile, lively, laborious father's picture was to be garlanded within our residence alongside my deceased mother.

"It was the first time for which had I but felt the extreme brutality of fate!

"The other residents of the slum-those of higher castes had but mostly mocked at his demise! They would tell us satirical sentences.

"They would say, 'Another Dalit's death. Oh, what a pity! Oh, how his soul would have to burn within the eternal fire of hell-burn only to atone for the sins-oh, what a pity! Oh, how would he dream and delude of reaching the ether above, the heavens of ethereal bliss while burning in the extreme anguish!'

"I, at times, felt that how, how was it so that inspite of the world propelling forward, illuminating and enlightening itself, the residents-the relentless, austere residents would never feel the abhorrence of their words!

"It perhaps, was a greater pity!

"Ishita had consoled me and my siblings with mere yet magical words of solace. She would tell us, so softly, humbly, sweetly! She would say that the dread, the utter doom would once and for all but come to an end!-oh, only if they were true!

"I reminisce in the vacant moments of solitude within this cabin, of the utter peril we had surpassed-the days when nights had ruled and the azure of the ether could not be spotted!-it was all above us-a dark blotted jet black! Oh, surpassed did I say-well passed and carried rather, for had they but broken me and my feeble soul.

"I reminisce, how after the very day of my father's demise, had we but been in a hustle and bustle to search for a job were wages were in a plenty-where the bread would suffice and aid our sheer poverty! Prior to this, we used to run a little shop of simple goods for mundane usage-a few would purchase, all from the Dalit families in the slum-the others would pray its bankruptcy.

"And their prayers had perhaps, been answered!-our shop was already upon the verge of loss, and thereafter the demise of father, we ran out of the sufficient amount to purchase the required merchandise from the wholesalers. A tiny sum of money had been kept aside prior to the disaster- a part of father's savings!-but it did not suffice! We had to finally, perpetually, pull down the shutters of the store, with a heart of remorse, grief, and utter fear!-it was the extreme, excruciating fear of poverty!

"Oh, we had never quite realised poverty before father's demise! We never lived lives of luxury, however, the wages of his and the family business would suffice our needs of bread and butter! But now-we felt sinking within the depths of an ocean, larger, vaster, more intimidating than anything ever known-we felt battling out to make ends meet-battling out the ways, the path to sustain our existence!

"Oh, how I regretted that night-the very dusk of the day of father's cremation!-how had I regretted my words which could've inflicted pain upon the perishing bosom of the lonesome man buried in an ounce of toil and turmoil-how had I regretted!

"My days of celebration of youth and youthfulness were over-I too had to now choose the path of turmoil to support our family, now impoverished thereafter the drastic event!

"My father had worked in the colliery-the largest and the most famous one in town-'Das and Company Eastbound Colliery'. My elder brothers, Arjun and Arvind, chose to pursue their and our living in that cursed job of peril which once snatched away our smiles of relief and relaxation! I, on the other hand, had another passion!

"Oh, pardon my carelessness gentlemen!-I have forgotten to tell about my passion! I had a devout hobby for-"

"Oh, Arnav!-I think I have an idea of the art within which you took the greatest pleasure other than writing love letters for your beloved!" said Sameer, his words endeavouring to loosen down the heaviness of the atmosphere.

To this, Arnav gave a gaze of confusion, and exclaimed,
"What!?"

***

Robin, to the unawareness of all, had journeyed out of the cabin through the passage. He, now, returned with a cumbersome book, probably made of leather, coloured in the elegance of jet black. The fancied scent of book lovers was prevalent within the new entity held within the caregiving arms of  Robin-it was the glorious scent of old books, their dust and explored or unexplored pages.

This time, Robin was the one to speak to the confused sojourner.

"I bring forth to Mr. Lohar, one of his most prized possessions. This, I must declare, is a book of newspaper cuttings-it does keep an official record of news articles published months, maybe years ago." saying so, he advanced towards an awed Arnav.

"Arnav, if you can, please flip the pages of it and reach the bookmarked one! I am so verily sure about your elation upon reaching the article! You have been caused a lot of anguish-we want to now, see you smile!" said Robin, as he looked with untamed glee down upon the lovingly preserved pages of the book.

He drew a chair from one of the nooks of the room, where previously he had been sitting; this time he fancied sitting at a little closer proximity to the man and contemplating Arnav and his expressions a little more minutely.

Robin sat, his chair reversed to Arnav's seat. He now, received a better view of him.

Arnav had begun flipping the pages of the book. The pages held newspaper cuttings, some really old ones-they were yellowed, their writings a bit blurred out but still lucid. He spotted cuttings in English, Bengali, and other than languages, some even foreign to the Indian subcontinent. Other than the accustomed languages, he spotted cuttings of French, Spanish, and god knows what! To Arnav, some were intelligible whereas, others were not lucid at all.

The pages held so many incidents, stories and memories-blurred out from the minds with the passage of time. They remain frivolous, trifled, forgotten in the pathway of time, their chapters closed and caged in some cumbersome book of life.

The incidents seemed to be given a new existence today, with their reminiscence, with their chapters being reopened!

Arnav reached the bookmarked page! It was labelled two hundred and seventy eight. It was yet another news article. The words bore things more than linguistics and reports, they bore memories! But these criteria were similar to the previous pages.

Despite it all, there remained one little dissimilarity!

***

A breeze blew forthwith. It, having caressed the windowsill and the physiques seated nearby, swathed the room and the floors. It was a stormy, untamed breeze-independent of stringency! The dirt asleep upon the floor pirouetted with the inflow of the tumultuous column of air.

The breeze exited through the window at the other nook of the room. It carried with it the heaviness and dampness of the atmosphere of the cabin, and left a light airiness, and two officials observing a middle-aged, cadaverous physique with keen interest, and the latter in the peak of excitement and awe.

The latter was being observed in the peak of shock and surprise as he consumed the fragrance carried by the letters and sentences and paragraphs-the fragrance of nostalgia-in the bitterness of delight!

"This is me!-yes, it is! It is the picture of mine which had won the contest!-it had deserved!-But Sameer, Robin, how did you people come to know about this-the true identity of this non-existent being seated before you!?-how?" cried Arnav.

"Calm down, Arnav!" said Robin, the glimpse of the former excitement lingering within the smile upon his lips.

"We are docs! And docs know all!" said Sameer, his words slowly dissolving into a peal of giggles.

But Arnav did not giggle.

He stared at the page which watery pupils. His pupils were clogged with the fluid inflicted by the unfathomable bitterness of nostalgia. He dreamt of his most fancied possession-

A jet black, polished, cherishable, elegantly fashioned DSLR-the device which could capture the moments- the device which could seize them before they blur out again, perpetually, within the tumult of living.

***

The article read:
"'ALL INDIA PHOTOGRAPHY COMPETITION' today, has finally declared the verdict of the judges. The second and third runner-ups are, Anupama Karmakar from Gurgaon and Vijay Ghoshal from Kolkata respectively. The first runner-up is Nirupama Lahiri, from Bhuvaneshwar, daughter to Manik Mandal and Parvati Mandal, and wife to Subodh Shankar Lahiri.

"And gradually, after a lot of pensive episodes, the judges have finally, selected and declared their favourite art-piece. Hence, the winner is-Arnav Lohar from Sonarpur, Kolkata!"

Alongside the paragraphs about Arnav's living and life, containing expressions of pity and piety for his toiling pursuit amidst his daily adversaries-was printed a photograph.

It was a grayscale, monochromatic image, captured in the chilliness of a misty winter morn. Besides capturing the cold hues of the season, it did also capture the hues of the human facets-they, perhaps, were colder than the icy season.

The picture presented the tale of a little girl, of roughly seven or eight, homeless, and starving on the streets. It did exhibit how she searches for her bread within the stink and goo of the garbage bins and the odour of the ghettos-and it did exhibit an act-an act establishing the ultimate realness and reality!-the picture did present truth and not delusional surmises-however, capable was the encompassed act of defying the human senses and sanity, by making the many beholders of the photograph, question the existence and meaning of morality!

The famished girl has barely anything to cover her bod and dignity as she leans over into the bin to retreat food to suffice her hunger. Flies infest the garbage and her deep, eminent wounds. Her cadaverous frame does hint of her suffering from malnutrition. The bones, sockets and hinges supporting her figure try to protrude out of her skin and flesh and barge out into the open-or that is what their bulgeness suggests of. The little lady, perhaps, does await the grasp of death herself-hoping that it would bring her a wee bit of warmth, and help her sustain her soul from the coldness of the world she resides within.

Just behind her impoverished figure- is but present a man- a hale and hearty physique, leisurely lying upon a couch under the shed of a cosy tea shop taking his morning meals. A warm quilt blankets his frame down from the obese torso. He relishes the cold winter, the leisure and pleasure within!-and he gobbles down the fanciable breakfast of bread butter, jam and a couple of omlettes. Surrounding him, is the fresh, pleasant fragrance of the morning brew emanating from the kettle upon the stove.

And the girl searches on; she seeks not food, not bread but the motive of the world!-the morals and principles of humanity-only if there exists any!

****